Blood on His Shirtsleeve
by That-Fresh-Rain-Smell
Summary: Just a little valentines Day gift for my wife. Snarry, AngstyFluff, Happy Ending Warning
1. Regretless

_Blood on his Shirtsleeve_

Title: Blood on His Shirtsleeve

Author: That-Fresh-Rain-Smell

Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter

Warnings: Blood, violence, sex without preparation (owie!), self-mutilation, hurt/comfort (Sort of), somewhat-fluffy

A/N: Hullo all. I've had this little shot in my head for a while now, actually. And I decided I would get off my lazy arse and write it already, since I had also decided to make it a Valentines Day gift for my lovely wife, Kate (Cut-Wrist-Kate) and so here it is. I reaaly like it. I think.

* * *

_Regretless_

"Potter, you will report back to this classroom for detention, promptly after supper." The words fell to Harry's ears and the boy nodded without protest as his friends looked on. There had been no warning, no reason for a detention, and Snape had not deducted points either, which usually came with the detention, as well as an explanation.

In fact, the other students (even, grudgingly, the Slytherins) could not even begin to fathom as to why Snape had assigned the detention, and nor could they understand Harry's behavior as of late. The boy had been uncharacteristically silent in class, as well as a complete pushover when Snape—rare as it was—spoke to him. It was as if Harry had lost any will to fight, or any malice towards his Potions Master. The class flowed quickly out of the room, some shooting Harry odd looks and some others whispering to others about Harry's peculiar behavior. Hermione and Ron among them, they all headed towards their next class.

Harry was the last to leave, glancing around the room before he left with a look that must have come across as eager, for Snape frowned heavily at him as Harry scurried from the room.

* * *

Harry stood before Snape's desk, eyes downcast, as Snape glared at him. When He had entered, Snape had merely indicated that he was to stand before him, and the man had not said a word since he had come in. Finally, to Harry's relief, the man spoke.

"Mister Potter, as you may have noticed, your classmates, even those who reside in Slytherin, have been whispering and giving you odd looks as of late. Do you know what causes this?"

"Yes sir," Harry muttered, still looking down.

"What, Mist Potter, do you believe is the cause?"

"I…I can't say no to you, sir. And they've picked up on it." Snape walked slowly from behind his desk and up to Harry, allowing no more than an inch of distance between them. Harry turned towards him and looked up, eyes searching his professors for any hint as to the mans actions.

"Really, Mister Potter? You are incapable of saying no to me, no matter what?" Harry nodded, his eyes steady, and not wide as Snape would have thought they would be at his implications.

"What If I killed you? What if I hurt you, caused you to bleed?" Snape had been moving forward, causing Harry to eventually bump up against the wall that bordered the room to the left. Harry shook his head.

"No sir, I wouldn't be able to. Not to you." Harry's eyes had sparked at Snape's prior words, as if the thought of his Professor making him bleed was undeniably appealing. Snape's hands moved up to grasp Harry's throat loosely, his other hand coming up behind Harry's head to grasp the nape of his neck tightly. The hand around Harry's neck moved downward, and soon rested comfortably against Harry's right hip.

"Are you telling me, that right now, I could fuck you, hurt you, claim you, and you would not protest? And nor would you speak of it again?" Harry shivered at the mans words and nodded, eyes half closed.

"Yes, sir," he said quietly. The hand on his hip moved down and over, brushing his erection before firmly setting its weight upon it. Harry moaned slightly and arched into the hand over his length, quickly coming to loathe the layers of clothes between Snape's hand and his flesh.

As if reading Harry's mind—which he very well could be doing—Snape's hands roamed his body, making quick work of Harry's robes and clothes, soon leaving Harry standing naked in front of him. Harry shivered in the cool dungeon air, and attempted to press against the man for warmth, while Snape held him firmly in place against the wall with one hand on his left hip, the other his right shoulder.

The rough edges of the wall scarped his unprotected backside and he felt tiny trickles of blood beginning to slide down his back and legs, but he barely noticed; the pleasure of finally having his naked skin touched by this man was too overwhelming of a sensation. It felt as if fire spread from his fingertips, trailing heat across his skin and spreading shivers into his very bones.

Harry's attention was drawn slightly from the sensations by Snape's hands, which were roaming everywhere, as well as his eyes. Were his eyes darker than usual? Harry had only a brief time to wonder before one of Snape's hands came to rest lightly—_too_ lightly, by his way of thinking—along his hardened member. In an attempt at friction, and more contact, Harry's hips rose away from the wall and helplessly thrust towards his potions master, who smirked and let go of him altogether.

After a moment of disappointment on the boy's part, Snape pulled Harry towards him, pressing the lithe, naked body flush against the coarse material of his robes. Harry moaned, his erection scraping over Snape's thigh. The Potions master ran his fingertip deceptively softly across Harry's cheek before gripping the boy's bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger, jerking it downwards as he lowered his face. Harry hissed; the sound cut short when Snape leant in and took the injured lip between his teeth, biting down before sucking it between his lips.

Harry moaned, tongue flicking out over Snape's top lip as his fingers gripped tightly onto his Professors biceps. Snape covered the boy's mouth with his own, hard and needy as his lips, tongue, and teeth met soft, venerable and inviting lips. Stumbling backwards under the force, Harry's back connected with the hard dungeon wall, the stone scraping at his bare skin yet again. Without breaking the kiss, Snape wrenched Harry's hands from his biceps, hitting them off the wall above Harry's head.

Harry felt the skin on the backs of his knuckles and wrists splitting as they scraped along the wall, droplets of blood seeping out onto the cold stone. He winced in pain, but yet again that pain was overcome by need, want, and those sensations the other man caused.

With a quick movement, Snape gripped both thin wrists with one hand, leaving the other free to run down Harry's chest, the tips of his fingers brushing over one of Harry's nipples. Harry arched his back, moaning into the kiss when Snape's fingers traced the curve of his hipbone. Light, teasing touches trailed up his skin, causing him to whimper softly as the same touches scuttled up his hardened length.

A malicious light glinted in Snape's dark eyes as Harry's hips thrust helplessly up from the wall, yet again, desperately seeking any kind of substantial contact. Snape, using his height advantage, leaned forward, bringing Harry's hands down from the wall to his face. Turning the scraped hands over, Snape flicked his tongue out, once, twice, lapping at the blood that was pooling between Harry's fingers. Snape's other hand continued it's teasing path up and down Harry's member, palm doing nothing more than hovering above the hardness with a resonating heat.

Curling his fingers around Harry's erection, Snape dragged his hand upwards; thumb smearing droplets of pre-cum before he pulled the hand away completely. Harry whimpered again, head resting against the wall, eyes tight shut in frustration and longing. He heard the unclipping of robes and a swish of material and he opened his eyes, realizing his glasses had been knocked slightly askew. Harry caught a flash of pale skin before he felt a hand firmly pushing at his left thigh, coaxing his legs open. He obliged quickly, groaning as Snape stepped between his now parted legs and pushed open his own robes.

The Potions Master released Harry's hand, leaving both his own hands free to hoist up Harry's legs, forcing the boy's already scraped back harder against the wall. He splayed his palms on either side of Harry's head, face hovering barely centimeters above the others. Harry shuddered, a flush rising in his cheeks as his Professor's breath blew hot across his lips. In a display of Gryffindor boldness it was Harry who closed the gap, pressing his mouth to Snape's in a gesture out of place in its tenderness.

An angry growl came from Snape, forcing Harry's head backwards to smack off the wall as he drove their lips together. The base of Harry's skull throbbed, his teeth cut into the back of his top lip, and flicks of a metallic taste dropped onto his tongue. Snape's tongue was in his mouth before he had a chance to shake the stars from his head, plundering the inside of his mouth as drops of Harry's blood mingled with two lots of saliva.

Unconsciously, Harry squeezed his thighs tight on the Potions Master's hips, noticeably trying to thrust himself downwards and unprepared onto the mans erection. Snape wrenched himself from the kiss, teeth finding purchase on the boy's neck as he positioned his cock at Harry's dry entrance.

Harry whimpered, screwing up his eyes and turning his head away in pain as the tip of Snape's cock tore him open. Snape pushed further and Harry gasped again. The burning began slowly, spreading up his insides as he felt like he was tearing apart from in the inside out. He breathed quickly, a tear slipping down his cheek as Snape became fully sheathed inside of him.

Snape pulled out quickly, slamming back in with a low groan. Harry whimpered as Snape's lips found their way back onto his neck, the Potions Master's tongue darting out over the earlier bite mark. Harry felt something warm trickling down from inside him and he realized he was bleeding. But he could feel the pain, feel the blood, feel the burning of his skin ripping, feel the pinch of Snape's teeth on his neck and that was what mattered. Harry pushed himself down to meet Snape's thrusts, unmindful of the pain it was causing, wanting only to feel pleasure, to feel heat coil in his stomach as his climax builds, to be with this man in any way he possibly could.

With a change in angle Snape drove the head of his cock into Harry's prostate, resulting in the boy groaning in a pleasure that he found blended smoothly with the pain. His back ground up and down the wall as he rode Snape's cock, more and more of his skin peeling off. Snape was groaning, teeth fastened around Harry's earlobe as he thrust deeper, thrust harder, hot fingers wrapping around Harry's erection.

Harry moaned, driving himself down even harder, desperate to feel his release. The warmth pooled in his stomach, spreading down to his groin, a tingling shooting up and down his spine as Snape pulled his orgasm from him. Feeling his muscles tensing, Harry's now free hands gripped the mans shoulders as spurts of cum landing on Snape's bare chest. Snape let out a shuddering moan, shooting the results of his climax inside of Harry.

A head of black hair dropped onto Harry's shoulder as the boy's head swam in the after effects of his orgasm. He realized dully that Snape's hair was not greasy, rather, soft, and he took this into account and logged it away somewhere for later scrutiny.

Snape quickly regained his control, pulling away from Harry and watching with a sickened expression as the boy sank to the floor, eyes still tight shut.

"Out, Mr. Potter." Snape said, voice low and dangerous. Harry looked up from where he was holding his sweating face in his hands.

"Sir?" He asked, his genuinely confused innocence only enraging the Potions Master.

"Get out of here Potter." Snape repeated, anger and loathing seeping from every syllable. Harry stumbled up from the pool of red and white that had pooled around him, eyes darting around for his discarded clothes. Finding them, he hurriedly shoved them on and managed to get his cloak around his shoulders before one more look at his potions master sent him scurrying out the door. At the threshold, he paused, Gryffindor bravery coursing through his veins in a mad need to say his thoughts aloud.

"I don't regret it," he said quietly. He wasn't sure if the man had even heard it, but his courage was rapidly draining and he fled from the room with one more look at his potions masters smoldering eyes that were set in the blank, mask of a face.

* * *

When Harry returned to his dorm, he was relieved to find that his mates were off on some gallivant or another, and hurriedly threw his somewhat damp clothes on his bed, doing a quick cleansing charm on them before going about finding new ones to wear. Once he had a full set, he made his way to the showers and spent a great amount of time under the steaming beat of the hot water.

When he had toweled off, he stood naked before the large mirror—hoping that his locking spell would hold against housemates in need of a shower—and started the task of cleaning the many long, shallow, scratches that ran up and down his back and shoulders.

Halfway through he remembered his wand and immediately shoved his little first aid kit away in disgust with himself. He _knew_ healing spells, damnit! Small ones, found in the library books here at Hogwarts, but still perfectly capable of making small work of his back. Sighing, he grasped his wand and started uttering the spells that would help him.

After his scrapes and bruises were the tiniest of scars and the lightest bit of blue, he contemplated himself in the mirror. He looked _almost_ normal. Of course, there was that problem of his slightly hunched, waddling look about him, but he had found that his abused entrance hurt less if he stood and walked this way, rather than how he normally did.

After coming to the decision that there was nothing he could possibly do about it, he made his way slowly back to his bed, stowing the cowed first aid kit in his trunk, and lying down on top of the soft covers. He rested his hands under the base of his skull—which only throbbed lightly now—and spread his legs until he was almost completely comfortable.

And now; he thought. He was happy for being allowed time—if only brief—with the man; he had wanted him, yearned for him…liked him, for years now, but he was also greatly saddened by the idea that the man hated him still, as illogical as it was. He would take what he could get, that much he was sure of. If Snape wanted a fuck toy, then by Merlin Harry would be there each and every time the man called to him; it's not like he could say no, after all. And he would take whatever he could get from the man, emotionless sex or no. It's not like he was good for anything else, as he had found over the years, and he had been a fool to think differently.

* * *

The next few days were spent in tense silence and anticipation on Harry's part, total, blatant passiveness on Snape's. During class the man ignored him completely, only addressing him when it was absolutely necessary. This, to Harry, was worse than if Snape was horrid to him, because then at least he acknowledged his presence. He spent a week in silent agony over it, ignoring his friends and eating very little, when, on a Friday, Snape called him to stay after class.

Harry, apathetic and passive, like he had learned to become, sat down quietly in the seat that stood across from Snape's desk. The man sat behind it, eyes watching Harry intently as Harry sat very still, looking hesitantly back at him.

"Mr. Potter, I called you back to apologize for my prior actions; I played on your inability to refuse me, as well as whatever feelings you seem to have for me. If you wish it, I will go to the headmaster, or perhaps arrange for you to get quiet sessions with a muggle psychologist, or a Mungo's healer. I will pay any expenses, and take full responsibility for my actions." Harry's eyes grew wide and he shook his head emphatically, causing his hair to flick from side to side and across his glasses in a manner that drew the eyes to his own bright green ones.

"No, sir. Please." Ignoring the startled look in Snape's eyes, Harry continued, "I don't _want_ a healer, pr psychologist, or any of that! What I _want_ is for it to happen _again_." His voice, loud an animate in protest, quieted considerably, "I want _you_." His voice was so quiet; Snape had to lean forward slightly to hear it, and when he had, his moth was a grim line, and his eyes were hard chips of obsidian.

"Well, Mr. Potter, this is your one and only chance. I will not make this offer twice. If you refuse, you will not have a second chance. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir, completely. I stand by my answer," Harry said, voice strong in contrast to his demeanor.

"Then get out Potter. I don't want to hear from you again, and I don't want to hear about _this _again. If I hear _one word_ about if, from you or anyone else, you'll wish I _had_ killed you." Harry nodded agreeably.

"I wouldn't tell anyone anyway," he muttered, and Snape's snide voice cut into him like a sharp slice of ice.

"Oh, ashamed, Potter? How predictable," He snapped.

"No," Harry looked at him with those steady eyes, the green shining like hardened emerald. "I'm not. I wouldn't tell because I'd know that's what you would want. And I can't say no, remember?" Snape smirked.

"I remember it well," he said with malice. "Now, get out. I don't want to see you unless I absolutely have to." Harry rose obediently and picked up his bag, making his way to the door. Again, at the threshold, he turned back to his teacher, who had immediately started grading papers, paying him no second mind.

"And sir?" he said, voice louder this time. Snape looked up to glare at him, and Harry finished his thought before Snape could reprimand him. "I meant what I said; I don't regret it." He left hurriedly, before Snape could murder him, which, from the looks of it, he was seriously contemplating.

* * *

_Next Chapter: Snape apologizes...sort of...and then...blood on his shirtsleeve..._


	2. Bloodstains

_Blood on his Shirtsleeve_

Title: Blood on His Shirtsleeve

Author: That-Fresh-Rain-Smell

Chapter: Two, Bloodstains

Pairing: Severus Snape/Harry Potter

Warnings: Blood, violence, sex without preparation (owie!), self-mutilation, hurt/comfort (Sort of), somewhat-fluffy

A/N: Hullo all. I've had this little shot in my head for a while now, actually. And I decided I would get off my lazy arse and write it already, since I had also decided to make it a Valentines Day gift for my lovely wife, Kate (Cut-Wrist-Kate) and so here it is. I reaaly like it. I think.

* * *

_Bloodstains_

A month passed. Harry fell, and fell, growing thinner, darker, and quieter. He no longer ate but a few bites at any of the meals, he no longer slept, he no longer spoke. His friends were pushed aside, and the Headmaster was placated with lies of varying intensity.

He began to sneak away to the room of requirement every night, he began to cut himself. The sight of his blood trailing down his skin reminded him perversely of that night, so long ago, that Snape came in such close contact with him, and it brought him comfort. The pain also made him feel, and who could pass such a thing up?

One night, around two weeks after his talk with Snape, he drew his razor, his lovely, glistening razor, across his skin in smooth arch's, until there was a perfect 'S' on his left arm, in the general area where one would expect a dark mark to be, had he one. Two more weeks past, and, after reopening the cut several times, the wound shone bright, raised, and silver against his skin, which was most agreeable to him.

When it was completely healed, he found his razor tracing out a second 'S'; one that linked the bottom of the first with the top of the second. In the weeks that followed, he reopened it just as many times as the first, and watched as it slowly grew into a scar.

One day, during a double potions lesson, he scratched aimlessly at the scab of the second 'S', which was still in the healing process, and continued his work silently and well. Little did he know, the 'S', under his shirtsleeve had begun to bleed, seeping into the cloth and soaking a sloppy outline of the underlying wound on the thin polyester.  
At the exact moment he was adding a new ingredient, Snape came to loom over his work. Bending down on the pretence of examination, the man whispered quietly, voice full of malice,

"Is that blood, Potter?" Harry gasped and looked at his left arm before quickly retracting it from above the potion, setting down the herb, and bringing it to rest against his side, under the safety of his cloak. Snape moved away quite fluidly and began to criticize Nevil's work, which had turned a puke-green colour, rather than the pure black that the class was aiming for.

Harry shakily continued his potion, keeping his arm at his side and wondering if the others in the class had noticed it as quickly as Snape had. To his relief, no one was paying him any mind whatsoever.

When, at long last, the class was completed, Harry rushed to get his things together and was almost out the door when Snape called him back. Dejected and apprehensive, Harry returned to stand in front of Snape's desk.

"Potter. Pull up your sleeve," the man ordered, and Harry obeyed his silky voice instantly, whether he had wanted to or not, and slid his left sleeve up to his elbow. The silver 'S', the first one, was smeared with the blood of the second one, and the second one was a perfect, twining line of red. The red smeared upwards, where the sleeve had drug it, and it looked incredibly beautiful to Harry's caressing eyes. Snape's eyes, as well, were on the insignia, but his were less of a caress, and more of a glare.

"Well, well Potter. Care to explain?" the man asked loftily, sitting down in his chair. He motioned to the other chair and Harry sat, looking down at the floor.

"I've nothing to say." He said quietly.

"Surely, you have much to say. My initials carved into your flesh certainly prove that much. Perhaps I should have merely _ordered_ you to attend a psychologist. We both know you would have listened then, and done as you were told."

"Yes sir, I suppose I would have. But I don't think they would have done much. I'm not demented, or mentally unstable,"

"Well of course you are, Potter! You _carved my initials into your own flesh!_"

"And that's relevant how? What I do to my own skin is of no concern to others. I don't plan on killing myself—at least, I don't plan to until I kill the dark lord—and I'm not going to suddenly die, unless you yourself kill me. It doesn't matter."

"Mr. Potter if you think that the wizarding world would accept the mutilation of your own skin—"

"I don't think they'd accept it, they'd just have to fucking deal with it. What are they gonna do, lock me up? They _need_ me, at least, for now. I can do whatever I damn well want to myself."

"So, arrogant as your father, I see."

"Not arrogant, realistic. Besides, would you really tell anyone that I carved your initials into my arm? The only ones who know are you and me. It will stay that way, because there's no way you can tell others without the suspicion falling on you." Snape glared daggers at Harry, who still wasn't looking directly at him.

"You forget, Potter, that the headmaster places an untold amount of trust on me, whether that trust is deserved or not."

"I think the trust is deserved," Harry said with conviction.

"And what if I told you it wasn't? What would you do then? Would you be repulsed? Would you recoil in fear and run to the headmaster yourself?" Snape spat.

"No. If you were on the Dark Lords side, it wouldn't change anything. I'd…I'd follow you, wherever you went. And if you didn't want me around, I'd leave you alone. But surely, if you were working for the Dark Lord, wouldn't you be pleased that I would willingly follow you to my own demise?"

Harry seemed to have grown a vocabulary over the last month or so, and Snape appraised the boy with fresh eyes. There were dark, black circles under his eyes that could have been make-up, and he was absurdly thin. More silver lines ran around the 'SS' carved into his arm, made more visible by the blood that was smeared over them.

"Don't you even try and tell me that you would go to your death because you simply can't say no to me, Potter. My patience is at an end with you as it is."

"You have patience? Since when?" Harry asked before he could stop himself. Snape's eyes were murderous and Harry ducked his head and apologized quickly.

"Either way…it's true." He said, more quietly this time. There was a long silence, and then Snape's voice filled the room and Harry's ears yet again.

"Potter, I _forbid_ you to harm yourself in any way. I order you to eat, to sleep, and to take proper care of yourself. Now leave." Harry stood, eyes searching his professors face as he did so.

"Sir, you…No offence meant, but that…what you just said, it makes it seem like you…_care_…" Snape glowered, and his voice was rich with sarcasm and loathing. Perhaps if he had noticed the slight glimmer of hope—which had vanished with Harry's appetite—that resided within the boys eyes, he would not have said anything so painful. Or, maybe he perhaps would have anyway.

"Of course I _care_, Potter. You're useful in the only way you can be; we need you to kill the Dark Lord. We can't have you dying from hunger, and we can't have you weak from it either. And as much as I loathe disappointing you, I want the Dark Lord as dead as possible, as soon as possible. Now, get out of my sight."

"Oh." Harry said very quietly. "Okay, then." And then he was gone, leaving Snape to wonder what exactly the boy was thinking.

* * *

Over the next week, Harry regained his earlier vigor; eating meals, sleeping properly, and refraining from the use of his razor, he soon regained physical health, to the happiness of everyone who knew him. He remained quiet though, and it was soon apparent that whatever had been wrong with him had not completely gone away. He remained quiet and apathetic in everything he did, and only once did Snape catch him sending a look of pure longing in his direction.

Harry had also taken up the habit of falling asleep outside of Snape's personal quarters. After the man had retired for the night, Harry would surreptitiously make his way to the outside of the chambers, under the veil of his invisibility cloak, and lay on the hard, cold floor until he fell asleep.

His internal alarm clock woke him every time, an hour before the man would emerge, and Harry would slip away into the shadows, on his way to breakfast. He wasn't sure if it was paranoia, fear of being caught, or just good timing, but whatever allowed him to wake before Snape left his quarters, he was grateful.

One night, a month after his last talk with Snape, he misjudged the time, and ended up falling asleep in front of the door _before_ the man had decided to retire for the night. As it were, Harry was woken quite rudely by a spell that sent a blast of hardened air to his side. Mumbling about how Snape could have just kicked him or something, Harry sat up slowly and looked at the man.

"Potter. Just _what_ are you doing, sleeping outside my chambers?" Harry rubbed his eyes sleepily and blinked up at the man, who was waging an internal war as to whether Harry was being cute—he was _not_ being cute!—or whether he should hex him on the spot and get to his own bed.

"Well sir. See, I… I sleep out here every night, just, after you go to sleep, so I'm not bothersome. And then I wake up before you and leave. I'm…I'm sorry sir." Harry said, though he clearly wasn't sorry.

"You do _what?_ Potter, I thought I made it clear that you were to take care of yourself!"

"I…I am, sir. This is as close as I can get to you without you becoming mad—mostly because you didn't know—and I _need_ to be near you, to be able to…to keep going." Harry blushed and looked down, while Snape glowered at him. After a moment, Snape sighed.

"Well, come in then," he muttered, moving to open the door. Harry pushed himself out of the way and stood clumsily, confusion written allover his easily read features.

"Sir?" He asked, as if afraid he had misheard. Obedient as ever though, he followed the man into his chambers and sat delicately on the edge of a sitting room couch, as if he expected to be kicked out at any moment.

"I'm tired of this, Potter. It seems that the only way to get you back to 'normal' is to allow you semi-close contact with me. And the world needs you at your best."

"I don't…I'll gladly take whatever you offer me, sir, but I…I wish you weren't doing this for the benefit of…others."  
"If wishes were pies, perhaps you would weigh the right amount," Snape snapped, and Harry winced.

"Look, Potter. I'm tired of this. If we both seem to want this...then who am I to stop it? I tried, but you, persistent as ever, made my life even more difficult because if it. I suppose its time to just stop fighting."

"I'm sorry. If you want me to leave you alone, I'll go away, you'll never have to see me again. I'll—" Snape cut him off with a glare.

"You are impractical as ever, I see. How many brain cells have you been living on, Potter? Surely only enough for your motor skills to be halfway functional. I _want_ you to stay here." Harry's face, alight with new hope and longing, searched the man's eyes and features for any hint of deception or negative aspect.

"You…you mean, you want me for sex?" Harry said, blunt in his odd way. "I'll be useful that way? Whatever lets me stay, sir, I'll—" Snape sighed, making the sound as insulting as if he had spoken.

"Mr. Potter, you are overly unintelligent when it comes to this, more so than you are most of the time. If I _want_ you to stay here, I don't only want your sex. If that was all I wanted, I would have taken it from you the moment I found out you couldn't say no, and I would have continued after that." Harry blushed and looked down.

"Oh." Was all me managed to say to that little speech, a speech that was as much as Snape confessing his undying love as Harry would ever receive, assuming that that was what it was. He looked back up, to find that Snape had moved closer to him, and this time the kiss between the two was more than a mere touching of lips.

_Kiss me, kill me, only never leave me._

* * *

A/N: Bleh. I _hate_ happy ending. But…it's Valentines Day. Love you, love. Never leave you Kate


End file.
